These Things Do Happen
by Yuki Okuda
Summary: The re-building of the world-famous Opera Populaire creates a chance for seduction between two rivals...and possibly love? (Slash; ErikRaoul) PG13 for now-I may scoot the rating up later. (UPDATE! CHAPTER ONE LOADED)
1. A Very Short Prologue

These Things Do Happen

* * *

By Yuki Okuda 

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own The Phantom of the Opera. Sorry, kids. To whoever's in power: Don't sue me, please.

Warning: Honestly, do I have to put a _warning_ on my story? It makes it sound poisonous or something. Anyway, I intend to make this a **slash** at some point (Erik/Raoul) so if you don't like slash then please do not read this.

* * *

(A Very Short) Prologue

The sanctity and silence of the Opera Populaire rarely ever broke these days. Devoid of its dancers, singers, stagehands, and musicians it now sank into a quietness that never broke, other than the occasional skittering of a rat.

This is why it came as such a surprise one day when several _people_ marched through the dilapidated front doors. Talking boisterously and gesturing widely across the room, they held up blue prints and discussed what they could do with the place.

There wouldn't be a whole lot they could do.

The great fire had occurred only a few months back, burning and ravaging the place of any of its former beauty. Scarred statues, destroyed curtains, and ruined stage were the only things left intact.

"Now, gentlemen, it may look rotten-" A young man assured his partners, smiling politely, "-but it once poured in tens of thousands of franks a night."

"Yes, that may be well and true," M. Louran murmured, beady eyes fixed on the boy in front of him, "but you, my fine sir, are very young. You do not know what the public wants."

"Exactly," M. Jeroux finished. He ran a hand through his thick, white hair, leaning heavily on his cane to support his tiny body. "What makes you think the public will want anything to do with a cursed place?"

"Sirs, there is no need to worry. The news of the fire has disappeared from the papers. The public's eye is no longer on this place. I am more worried about hiring a new cast than I am about these seats being filled."

"Hmm..." M. Louran rubbed his chubby chin thoughtfully. "I am not so sure about this, M. Jeroux."

"And what do you say, M. du Chagny, about the so-called Phantom of the Opera?"

Raoul smiled stiffly, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. "Why, sirs, if there even was a phantom to begin with, he has long disappeared." Receiving their disbelieving stares, he continued, "The police have extensively searched the building and found no evidence of this 'phantom'."

Raoul grimaced as the lies tumbled out of his mouth. He knew for certain that the police had discovered a lot of evidence pointing to the Phantom's existence. These men didn't know that though, and what they didn't know wouldn't stop them from offering him tons of money...

They nodded after a long moment of silence. "And you can assure us that you will pull in a large profit?" M. Jeroux questioned, ancient eyes staring at him flatly.

"We will pull in _quite_ a large profit. You will never have to work another day in your lives, as long as you offer me a little starting sum..." Raoul finished charmingly.

"One hundred thousand francs is not a little sum, Vicomte. However..." M. Louran sighed, "I would be willing to offer my services."

"As would I." M. Jeroux put in.

A real grin split across Raoul's face. Finally, things would get under way once more...

* * *

Erik frowned, head snapping up from the work in front of him. The sound of feet stomping over head ripped him from the sweet call of the violins and flutes. Growling, he got to his feet, cape sweeping behind him. Who dared disturb his silence? 

He moved quickly through his lair, like an unseen ghost who voluntarily chose to limit itself to the laws of physics, but only just so. Erik moved swiftly and silently down the darkened hallways, eyesight perfect in the pitch black. He roved up the spiraling staircases until the light of the opera house finally fell upon him.

He dared to glance out into the light from the shadows, eyes widening at the sight before him.

Dozens of men marched around his opera house. Yelling, spitting, cursing, and laughing, they disrupted the perfectly beautiful silence. Their muddy boots dirtied up the wooden floors while they hauled in all kinds of heavy lumber. The sound of hammers echoed throughout the specially designed theater, racketing loudly.

"_Hé! Hé! Vous!_" The director yelled over the sound of construction. "I said not to reconstruct anything. We're trying to replace the damage, not build a new theater."

Erik raised an eyebrow, curiosity taking over his initial anger. Replacing the damage to the theater? For what purpose?

Nothing went on in his theater without his approval and Erik had every intention to get to the bottom of these intruders.

* * *

A/N: Oh my goodness, I haven't gotten into writing for a long, long time. Hopefully if I put this out there I'll actually feel like I have to write more. Here's hoping. 

Sadly enough, I haven't gotten around to buying the book yet, so this story is generally based around the movie.


	2. Brewing

These Things Do Happen

By Yuki Okuda

Disclaimer: Nope, don't own The Phantom of the Opera. Sorry, kids. To whoever's in power: Don't sue me, please.

Warning: Slash later! (E/R)

"Ahh, Pierre, but you're wrong about that." Christophe laughed cheerfully, taking another swig from his bottle of wine, "Parisian wine 'astes like spit."

"That is the problems with you Alsatians. You're too caught up in your cheeses and cakes to even taste real wine!" Pierre snapped back, poking Christophe's generous belly with a finger.

"There's nothing wrong with a little meat on the ol' bones!" He retorted, swooning slightly where he sat. Christophe slapped his cheeks a few times, trying to shake off the dizzy spells that hit him. "I've 'ad too much," He muttered when Pierre offered him another swig.

The chubby man glanced around the unfinished theater, a look of disdain fixed on his face. In all his fifty-three years, he had never seen anything so pitiful. The curtains hung, burned in most places, from rickety poles. The lush, red carpets were peeled away from the floor. All the glory and majesty from the building had been stolen away.

"No one ever hired me to _rebuild_ anything, actually," Christophe mentioned, rubbing his great chin thoughtfully, "What the hell 'appened here anyway?" He wondered, hiccupping.

"Fire," Pierre answered authoritatively from his position in the front row. He stared up at the scarred ceiling, remembering how the papers had raved about it for months before it sank into the back pages. "A mysterious fire, at that."

"What does zat mean?" Christophe pried, jealous that his friend could hold his wine so well and not even slur as he spoke.

"The authorities never found out how it started." Pierre let out a tremendous sigh, rubbing his tired eyes. "Listen, I'm going to go back to bed. Work is bright and early tomorrow."

"Right." Christophe watched the scrawny man get up, stumbling slightly.

"Don't stay up too late. Many still believe that an old ghost wanders around at night!" He claimed loudly as he walked up the aisle.

Christophe smirked, slowly getting to his feet. Ghost stories were ridiculous. Did he look like a young, naïve child? He spat at that thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Ghosts," He drawled into the open air, sarcasm pouring out of his words. "Who would waste their time on a dump like this?"

He flopped down, splaying out on stage. Eyes turning heavenward, he attempted to imagine the building as it once stood; gold trimming and all. Easier to do in a drunken state, he could actually make out some of the finished statues.

Unsure of how long he had been there, Christophe must have nodded off a few times because when he woke up, daylight started to creep through the windows.

A sudden cold blast of air shocked him out his drowsy state.

Getting up quickly, he heaved his bulky body up. Wheezing, he shivered slightly, imagination going a little wild in his half-awake state. Shadows jumped before his eyes, twisting into human shapes.

"Who's there?" He demanded loudly, trying to mask the fear the clenched at him.

No one answered his reply, but it didn't matter. Christophe could feel someone's presence nearby; someone's eyes upon him.

Deciding that he had spent enough time in that place, he started to leave.

Pffft.

The sound of something light hitting the ground stopped him in his tracks. Turning around slowly, his eyes caught onto the only object that the dim lit from the windows snared.

A plain, white envelope lay on the wooden beams a few feet behind him.

Blinking, Christophe tried to remember if he had seen it before. Chancing a glance around, he looked to see if anyone had pulled a prank on him. Perhaps a few other construction workers had gathered together and thought up a practical joke.

He couldn't make out anyone lurking in the shadows. Gathering up his courage, he crossed the distance to the envelope, reached down and picked it up in one swoop.

Christophe waited for a few moments, as if some of his buddies actually had waited in the dark all night to pull off this hoax. Smirking, he looked down at the envelope, which appeared innocent enough.

Examining it carefully, he noticed that thinly stenciled black letters were scrawled on the back.

'_Pour nouveux Les Directors seulement'_

Raoul turned the envelope in his hand over and over, studying it with a morbid look of fascination. His two new directors paced around the room, interrupting the silence with little indignant shrieks.

"Do you know what it is, Monsieur?" They asked, peeking over his shoulder. Raoul propped himself up in his desk chair, resting comfortably as he studied the letter.

"I do believe," Raoul looked up, a serious look pinned on his face, "That it is a letter." The feeblest smile escaped onto his lips as the men stared at him, looks of stunned disbelief pasted on their faces. What kind of fool…

The two, old gentlemen exchanged looks. "Come, come now. Do you know who wrote it?" M. Louran asked, stroking his thin beard in agitation.

"One moment, gentlemen."

They had already broken the seal, of course, but Raoul paused anyway, passing a finger over the wax skull.

_Erik._ He thought weakly, although he knew the second he had laid eyes on it that only one person could have sent it.

Sliding the letter out slowly, Raoul took his time, hesitant, almost frightened to open it. The black letters scribbled across the page looked like someone had taken a match and dipped it in ink. Thick and clumsily strung together, it looked like a child had written it.

'_Dearest Gentlemen,_'

'Your presence both delights and baffles me, I must admit. I had not expected anyone to return to the Opera Populaire so soon. For this reason, I must question your motives for re-building my opera house.

However, as curious as I am to find out the truth, I am also a patient man. Since this is our first meeting, I will not interrogate you, for the moment. I will request my usual pay though, of 25,000 francs. I will inform you on the means of payment later, my new found friends.

Welcome to the Opera Populaire, I am sure that this atmosphere will suit you well.'

'Yours truly,'

'_O.G_'

"Who is this O.G?" M. Jeroux wondered as Raoul finished reading the letter for the second time. Piercing right through the viscount, M. Jeroux old eyes tried to dig up the truth.

Raoul feigned innocence, shrugging slightly under the weight of their gaze. If he told them what he knew, they wouldn't believe him anyhow.

Raoul briefly conjured up the faces of the former managers of the Opera Populaire. M. Andre and M. Firmin had taken the 'O.G' business well at first, treating it like a harmless gag.

Eyeing M. Jeroux and M. Louran, Raoul measured them up against the past managers.

M. Jeroux, the oldest one, was a well-known composer throughout all of France. He had amassed a gigantic fortune over the years, which he apparently intended to blow in Paris. According to his most reliable sources, the man had a penchant for young dancers and booze.

Raoul did not feel concern over M. Jeroux; the man he really worried about was M. Louran. A shrewd business man to the core, he only sought to add to his large wealth.

Both men did not sport first-class attitudes, although both could easily be won over with the flash of money. It was not a surprise that they seemed outraged by the letter, considering how much money O.G demanded.

Clearing his throat, Raoul tried to think of something to say that would both calm the two men and explain to them who 'O.G' was and what exactly he wanted.

Smothering his private wish that Erik would just disappear, he opened his mouth to speak, "It appears to me, sirs, that this 'O.G' has a hand in the theater."

M. Louran raised an eyebrow, watching Raoul like a hawk eyeballing its prey. Reigning from just outside of Paris, the pudgy, aged man knew much about the events of a few months ago. The whispering rumors had not passed his ears unheard.

He knew of Raoul's involvement.

"Is that so?" He questioned, noticeably biting back another comment.

Raoul understood much for such a young man. Raised in a world of politics, he knew that as long as courtesy stood between him and his two new managers he could get away with anything. "Perhaps O.G is the name of one of the workers," He supplied.

"Why would one of the workers request twenty five thousand francs?" Louran demanded, seeking out any flaws in Raoul's story.

Raoul smirked inwardly. Louran could try all he liked to discern the truth; the viscount had not grown up in high-society without picking up a few tricks from the politicians.

A hearty laugh fell from his lips, "Sir, I know nothing more than you do.

I'm afraid to tell you that it seems you have been had."

"What does _that_ mean?!" Jeroux cried out, slamming his fists against the top of Raoul's desk. The viscount shot him a dark look, disapproving of his actions.

"It means exactly what I said. This whole affair must be a hoax."

Needless to say, the men had just about lost any control they had when they heard Raoul's explanation. After all, a dim-witted employee managing to trick them would not go over well under any circumstances. They had sworn revenge immediately, and it had taken Raoul almost an hour to calm them down.

The second letter arrived two days later. Raoul was bent over several documents at the time, fervently searching for a new staff. _Le corps de ballet_ would be the hardest to fill, although Raoul had high hopes that a school out of Paris would willingly graduate its best to his opera house.

Barging in suddenly, one of the workers disrupted the peace of his office. Wordlessly, the man had handed him the document and left. This time, the envelope was addressed to the _patron_, which gave Raoul some hope that Erik still didn't know who pulled the strings behind the reconstruction of the theater.

The note was short and direct.

_'Cher Patron,'_

'I do hope that you find the Opera Populaire a pleasant place. Please refrain from interfering.'

'Yours,

O.G'

Raoul toyed with it, hours later, brewing over a course of action. As he had learned almost six months ago when he had first arrived at the Opera Populaire, the Phantom enjoyed taking a large part in the managing of the opera house. Directing how plays should be run, assigning roles, and terrorizing the staff seemed to be his favorite pastimes.

Raoul thought hard about it before he reached his decision. He certainly could not have the Phantom of the Opera running about, wreaking havoc. The viscount needed to insure everyone's safety and healthy state of mind before the first play could even go on. He hated to do what he was about to, but he knew that he had to take action.

He would have to talk to Erik.

Raoul sloshed through the waist-deep waters, shivering as the ice cold liquid soaked through his thin, summer clothes. He regretted his attire immediately, hoping to God that he would stumble upon his destination soon before he died of pneumonia.

The torch he held with his left hand guttered every few seconds, threatening to go out and leave him in darkness. Pressing on, he tried to ignore the shivers that wracked his body. _Cold?_ He wondered to himself. _Or afraid?_

Raoul wondered how many times a boat had traveled the very same path he took now. How many times had the Phantom gone this way? How many times had he taken Christine with him?

Raising the torch slightly, Raoul tried to banish the shadows that plastered the wall. He didn't like surprises. His hand shook by his head, begging to drop down by his side. Not daring to even lower his defenses for a second, he ignored the trembling appendage.

The first flicker of light that peeked through the darkness barely caught the young viscount's attention. Squinting, Raoul dropped the torch just a bit, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Encouraged, Raoul's pace quickened. The water which had menaced him the entire journey seemed to resist even more now. Raoul grit his teeth and pushed himself forward, determined now that a glimmer of hope had materialized.

The tiny fleck of light grew as he hurried on, expanding out until it illuminated everything. Raoul grinned, knowing that he had finally discovered the lair of the beast.

Author Notes: Hmmm… not one of my best chapters. T.T.. I'm sooorrry! I'll do better next time, when things get more exciting! I promise.

I bought the Phantom of the Opera book, finally! It's so good, but it's so different from the movie. I guess since I started with only knowledge about the movie, I'll stick to the movie-verse.

Sorry for the wait. Exams suck! O. o Don't worry, I'll try to come out with the next chapter soon.

Oh, does anyone know any other program to load this on? Word doesn't look very good. Help!


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